“Beata, you’ve guessed my secret. Got me bang to rights! Yes. It’s all to do with Cambridge. Cambridge politics, to be exact. The state the country’s in . . .” He shook his head, despondent. “The powers that be can’t be too careful. His grandmother isn’t the only one to spot young Digby’s potential, and enquiries have to be made. In the most discreet way, of course! We are not a police state. But we are conscious of the growing danger of a certain revolutionary presence jostling for position with the pots de chambre.”

“Reds under the beds, do you mean? Up here in Yorkshire? Never! Where do you think you are? We’ve got a golf club opposite!”

“Um, er . . . indeed. The prophylactic powers of the golf course are underestimated, I’ve always thought.” He hurried on. “But the force does keep records, and in the case of an aspiring politician, especially one from the north—that dark, mysterious place!—questions are asked of us. If we don’t know the answers, we have to ask someone who does know. And what better authority than a granny? I wonder, may I take away with me—for instant return, of course—these two photographs from your collection? This one and that one. There, that should set a few inquisitive minds at rest.”

Seeing him get to his feet, Beattie rang for the maid.

“Oh, before I go—can you just confirm the year your son Sydney decided to change his surname by deed poll to . . . er, what was it?” He pretended to refer to his notes. “Here we are: Gisbourne?”

“1903. Just before his son was born. He thought it was a smarter name for the child and for the grocery chain he was planning. He’d just bought out a store called Gisbourne the Grocer, and he thought he’d help himself to the name as well. The old Gisbourne had just died, so he wasn’t using it anymore. And it had Yorkshire connections, Sydney said. You know, Robin Hood and all that. There was a Sir Guy of Gisbourne fencing with Douglas Fairbanks in a film last year. My cousin took me to see it at the Palace Picture House in Leeds.”

“Now I remember! Cracking film! You’re right, Beattie! Guy of Gisbourne—the hired killer out to get our Robin, wasn’t he? Well, well! Let’s keep it in the county, shall we?”